Personal Narrative: Depression

I did not know what it meant to be happy until I was almost twenty years old. Growing up, I viewed the world through what seemed to be a veil; everything was muted, grey and distant. I had reached a point where I accepted how I felt, where I came to regard it as normal. Looking back, I realize how wrong I was. My first semester of college was a wake-up call, both for me and my parents. At the start of winter break, my parents sat me down in our living room, holding me between them, and asked if everything was all right. Their worry terrified me; I didn’t understand what was wrong with me, why wasn’t I normal? The answer came in a single word, one that would seem to hang over me everywhere I went: depression. It ran in my family, but my